


Heaven's Light and Hellfire

by LawrVert



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Asexual Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 09:18:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19373779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LawrVert/pseuds/LawrVert
Summary: When Aziraphale doesn't show up for a meeting with Crowley, he finds the angel injured in his bookshop. Together, they find healing, acceptance, and love.





	Heaven's Light and Hellfire

When the thunder rumbled in the sky over Saint James' Park, Crowley was both literally and figuratively cursing himself for forgetting his umbrella. He grumbled under his breath.  
"Wait for me on our bench, Crowley. I'll be there at noon, Crowley. Six-thousand years and he's never late and he picks the day of the worst bloody storm in a decade to be late."  
He finally allowed himself a bit of a shield, making his outstretched wings invisible to humans around him who were largely too busy to notice the way the path of the rain seemed to bend around his head. 

The truth was, Crowley was more worried than pissed off as he knew Aziraphale had been visited several times by his head office. He'd been able to make excuses for the whole business with the flaming sword for the last few millennia, but Aziraphale had not exactly been living below the radar as of late. 

The demon walked aimlessly for a while before he felt a vague uneasiness, a prickling in the back of his mind that worsened to a feeling of terror he only felt when his angel was in danger. Turning on the spot, he ran the last four blocks to Aziraphale's bookshop. Crowley hoped his sense of foreboding was wrong and he would have the chance to tell the angel that this demon had better things to do then wait for him in a rainstorm all day. 

The shop was closed, which in and of itself wasn't unusual. There was less chance of having customers browsing that way--thus, less chance of Aziraphale having to sell his treasured books. There was an odd light coming from the back of the shop followed by the sound of raised voices and a crash that made Crowley slam his weight against the door several times before he thought of making the lock open using his powers. "I'm here, angel!" he shouted.  
By the time Crowley reached the back room, the noises and strange light had disappeared, though he was more than ready to rip out the throats of anyone threatening Aziraphale.

"Angel? Aziraphale? Where in the bloody hell are you?" Crowley called, half panicked. 

Finally, he heard an answer from the back of the shop, the voice weak and pained. "In the back. Give me a moment. I'll be there in a tick." 

When he did find the angel on the floor of the shop's backroom, Aziraphale was kneeling beside a broken lamp, hastily sweeping up the pieces with trembling hands.

Crowley frowned beneath his sunglasses. "Here. Let me…you'll cut yourself like that." He knew the angel took great pride in his hands. They were smaller than his own with long dexterous fingers, always carefully manicured. Crowley liked to imagine as he watched them gesture elegantly, that they were very soft. 

Aziraphale, hands shaking and face pale, hardly responded. He seemed to be struggling to catch his breath, and when he finally did, he could only whisper "Crowley," in an almost inaudible tone. 

With a snap of the golden-eyed demon's fingers, the shards of the lamp sprung up and pieced themselves back together on the table, leaving no sign it had ever been broken.  
Aziraphale's eyes widened, and finally, his old smile returned. 

"Thank you. I would have hated to lose that one. A Tiffany you know, and a rather rare one at that." 

"What happened to you? You look terrible," Crowley asked, kneeling beside him.

"An accident...just dusting some shelves.." The angel fidgeted and looked around the room at anything except Crowley.

"You're a terrible liar," the demon replied, shaking his head. 

"I'm not….well I…." Aziraphale tugged at his waistcoat, and his shoulders slumped in defeat. "You're right. I am. I got a visit today from Gabriel. I've been performing too many miracles again, it seems. They felt I ignored their last letter so it was time for a harsher punishment. I tried not to do too many. I restored some melted ice cream for children in the park, fixed a few injuries here and there, made some roses bloom for a young man to give to his sweetheart. They weren't any growing on account of the snow. They were small things really." 

Suddenly, Crowley's voice seemed to bubble up from the sulphurous pit of hell itself. "What. Did. They. Do. To. You? I swear I will go upstairs and end them all!" 

"Crowley, you can't. Your side would accuse you of treason for even being seen up there if the angels didn't kill you on site. It's not that bad." The Angel tried to soothe him. "How many times is it you've come to my rescue now?" 

"If I had been faster, I might have stopped you from getting hurt." Crowley growled the words.

"If you were here a moment earlier, they would have found out about our...arrangement and I might not have been able to see you again." 

“I thought your lot only sent harshly written notes to their own,” Crowley said, unable to stop the derision from coloring his tone. 

“There are rumors in heaven about rebel angels at acting as double agents. Ones that are going to fall...They don’t take any acts of insubordination lightly. I’ve been..questioning the war. It seems to have gotten me on Gabriel’s bad side.” Aziraphale moved suddenly and couldn't suppress a groan of pain, one arm folding protectively over his belly, causing Crowley to reach out a hand towards him without thinking.

"I can help. Let me see?" he pleaded.

Aziraphale blushed and shook his head. "But it wouldn't be proper. It's….undignified." 

"Undignified?" Crowley raised on eyebrow, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft. "Angel, I hardly think this is the time to be worried about that. Let me help." 

Aziraphale's blush deepened, though he nodded and sat up a little straighter.

Crowley's hands shook a little as he unbuttoned Aziraphale's waistcoat and then his shirt, trying to get a decent look at all the injuries without making the injured man feel ashamed. Crowley gasped at the lattice of red welts that covered his shoulders and chest. The largest marks along his upper abdomen looked as if they had been branded on his skin and were already beginning to form blisters. It seemed not an inch of the Angel's pale skin had been left unmarked. Even the skin in between those marks was discolored by bruises. Crowley knew these wounds were inflicted not only to cause pain but to leave scars. They couldn't use him on Earth if the scars were too visible so they had made sure to smite him where only he would see the marks.

Unable to meet his friend's eyes, the angel finally cleared his throat and woke Crowley from the spell he seemed to be under. 

"I didn't know your lot did this sort of thing anymore. Not to their own." 

"It seems they made an exception for me." Aziraphale suppressed the urge to wrap his arms around his exposed middle. 

Crowley looked at him, hidden serpentine eyes full of fondness, and thought him beautiful, all softness and light, but also strength. Not many could remain standing after having a team of angels smite them. The practice was old, usually reserved to create terror in humans and send very clear messages about disobedience. The human victims of the actual smiting usually didn't survive. The rod used for smiting was long, gilded, and ornate. From what Crowley remembered from Sodom and Gomorrah, the rod glowed white hot. He knew Aziraphale had to be in considerable pain, yet his pride and attempts not to worry Crowley made him grip the arms of the chair in order to stay upright. 

Crowley's hand hovered over Aziraphale's round belly reverently until he finally let his fingertips glide over the marred skin, his only intention to ease the pain. 

The angel closed his eyes and sighed in relief. Crowley tried to warm his hands and use the gentlest pressure in order to make the touches feel as good as he could. 

He was relieved to hear Aziraphale sigh in relief "oh...that is better." 

After just a few moments, Crowley smiled and replied "You can open your eyes now. All done. Very nice work if I do say so myself. I healed most of the bruises and smaller wounds. I can take the pain away but there may be some scars from the larger marks." He withdrew his hand reluctantly. In six thousand years, he had never dared to touch Aziraphale more than a handshake or a pat on the shoulder. Crowley wasn't in the habit of touching anyone. Most demons were so used to the constant press of bodies on Hell's congested and dark halls that they had no desire for touch. With Aziraphale, it was different. Crowley found he longed for contact, even the slightest brush of their hands, though he still worried his touch would contaminate Aziraphale like a vile infection. 

Somehow, against all odds, Aziraphale had not seemed repulsed by his touch, in fact, the noise of contentment he had made could be compared to the purr of a very content housecat. Touching Aziraphale was pleasant, like basking in a sunbeam that warmed him to his core. 

Becoming suddenly shy about his state of undress, Aziraphale muttered words of thanks and quickly slipped away to fix his clothing, determined to return to their normal pattern despite the events of the afternoon. 

When Aziraphale returned, he held a bottle of wine and two glasses. "I've been saving this too long," the angel said. 

Crowley was pleased to see Aziraphale seemed restored and no longer in pain as he poured them both a glass of the sweet rose. 

Several hours later, the bottle was nearly empty, and Aziraphale was thoroughly drunk. Crowley, on the other hand, was still nursing his first glass. Aziraphale could have simply removed the alcohol from his system, but Crowley could see the angel seemed to be enjoying the pleasant way it softened the edges of the world and made him perhaps just a little bolder. They had spent many nights together drinking and philosophizing or lamenting the state of things in their respective head offices. It did not change anything for the better, merely took the sting off some events. 

Tongue loosened by alcohol, the angel asked, "Crowley? Could I see your wings?" 

"My what? Why the devil would you want to see those?" Crowley sat up from where he lay sprawled across half the couch, voice almost panicked. The question had rather hit him by surprise. 

"Please?" Aziraphale asked almost pleading. "You saw my stomach. I haven't seen your wings in thousands of years." 

Never able to refuse his angel, Crowley stood and unfurled his wings. For long moments, Aziraphale didn't speak. 

"Yes, I know they're hideous compared to the wings of angels. Are you done staring?" Even with his eyes concealed behind thick sunglasses, the demon's annoyance was clear, though it stemmed from a deeper sense of insecurity. 

He very much regretted indulging Aziraphale, though there was almost nothing he would refuse to do to make him happy. Even if that meant facing deep shame and the pain of an old wound that had never properly healed.  
Aziraphale blinked in momentary confusion. "What? No….I didn't….I wasn't staring because of that…" Aziraphale stumbled over his own words in his haste to explain. 

"Then what? Out with it! This was your idea anyway...don't know why I let you talk me into this." The demon's arms were crossed and he was sulking. 

"Your wings are still beautiful…" The newly formed words tumbled out almost before the angel realized it judging by his wide eyes and open mouth after they were spoken. "They remind me of a night sky full of stars with the feathers catching the light just so." Aziraphale turned his head. "And I never noticed the blues and greens underneath. Just here." He raised his hand toward the feathers. 

The sound the demon made was something between a bitter laugh and a hiss. "I quite like them most of the time. Until I stand next to you." 

"Because it...I mean...I.." Aziraphale fidgeted with his waistcoat. "I remind you of your fall..?" 

After a moment, Aziraphale went rigid and looked as if he'd bitten into a lemon. "This is not a conversation we should have while inebriated." 

Crowley's expression was pained. Following this path with his senses dulled would simply not do, he decided. A shiver passed through him and an odd metallic taste burned his tongue. "Fine." Crowley looked even more miserable. "I'm starting to think this is not a conversation we should be having at all." 

"I'm not mistaken and I'm certainly not lying. Your wings may have changed color when you fell, but it suits you," Aziraphale assured him. For a moment, the Angel's hand reached out and came within inches of skimming the glossy black feathers. Then, Aziraphale lost his nerve and it fell back at his side. 

"Black wings for a black heart. Is that it, then?" A wry smile tugged at the demon's lips."Usually, angels are supposed to lose them when they fall, but I managed to keep mine in another form." Hands tucked into his pockets, the demon stood with wings hanging rather limply. Once, Aziraphale imagined, they must have been majestically outstretched. Perhaps not, given the demon's penchant for slouching. 

Aziraphale gave Crowley a loving, knowing smile, a smile Crowley was insanely fond of, a smile that always disarmed him. "Only a man who regretted his decision, a good man at heart, would choose to keep part of his angelic form." 

After long moments, Aziraphale reached out once more a hand hovering just over the one wing. "May I?" 

At first, Crowley drew back and scowled at the mention of good, wings flapping against his back as if defending themselves. In a moment, he steadied himself and nodded his consent. 

"Go ahead, then." Crowley barked the phrase, sounding gruff and indifferent. The truth was, he found the idea of allowing such an intimate touch both exciting and vaguely frightening.

Aziraphale brushed the iridescent wing with gentle fingers. This drew a gasp from the demon and a small shiver, especially when Aziraphale's hand glided over a particularly sensitive area of the underside. Crowley closed his eyes as soft hands skimmed over the other wing, stroked the area between them, admiring and almost worshipping.

In that moment, Crowley's knees buckled at the feeling, and he hissed. It was at once splendid and terrifying; his confused body seemed unsure whether it wanted to lean into the contact or shy away. Aziraphale's touch was loving, almost unbearably so, as if it were filling the demon's body with the incandescence of a newly born star. 

Crowley barely remembered being an angel. He cherished the moments on the earth far more than anything experienced in heaven. He vaguely remembered how it felt to stretch out his wings long ago. In the present, he felt a dull ache from keeping them folded and hidden so long. What he did recall was that it had been sterile and joyless. In hell, the golden light and endless rules and regimens had been replaced with darkness, cold, and another set of equally infuriating rules to follow. Crowley remembered vividly how it had felt to fall, remembered the agony of falling into a burning pit of sulfur as his name was stripped away and the light within him snuffed out like a candle flame. Somehow, the faintest spark had remained, locked away in his heart, untouched by Lucifer.

After a moment he pushed the memories aside so they wouldn't sully an otherwise glorious moment with old-remembered pain. 

"Crowley?" Aziraphale's hand moved to the demon's cheek. "Are you alright? Forgive me...you must be freezing, and here I am not even offering you a cup of tea." 

"I'm fine, angel. You worry too much." Crowley leaned into the touch, sighing as the angel let his hand slip into Crowley's red hair, carding through it softly.

In a moment, the angel allowed his own wings to emerge. They were just as beautiful as Crowley remembered, the feathers such a brilliant white they seemed to glow. Just as soon as Aziraphale stretched them to their full wingspan, he brought them inward to wrap Crowley in their warmth and softness. 

"No need to be a mother hen, angel. It's not as if it's raining holy water," Crowley quipped.

The angel withdrew his hand and folded his wings, tucking them securely away.  
"You oughtn't joke about that, Crowley. I'll be back in a moment with tea," replied Aziraphale with a sigh as he left Crowley alone to contemplate the thousands of books far too dear to be sold. 

Crowley examined the shelves around him. Quite a few of the titles made Crowley raise an eyebrow as he studied them. There were several misprinted bibles taking up an entire shelf. On another, he saw many first editions. Opening a few, he saw they were signed by the likes of Hugo, Wilde, and Dante. Aziraphale also had a rather enormous collection of love poetry. 

Crowley picked up a volume of Shakespeare that was well worn and bookmarked that rested on a round, dusty table with a marble top near the antique sofa. Then, the demon removed his glasses and thumbed through the volume, stopping on a page Aziraphale had bookmarked. It was one of hundreds of love sonnets, number 147. He usually didn't care for poetry, but his eyes widened as he read the final lines.

"For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright. Who art as black as hell, as dark as night." 

When Aziraphale returned, whistling cheerily, Crowley looked up from the book with a soft expression. "Angel…" 

"A book of Shakespeare. A rare first edition…." the angel gestured absently. "Rather nostalgic and sentimental since we knew the Bard." He drew a deep breath to calm his nerves and continued, finding courage. "I've always fancied the sonnets. That one has become rather dear to me." 

For a long moment, caught in a beam of moonlight filtering down from the skylight, the angel's blonde hair glowed like a halo.

"I...ah...it reminded me of you." Aziraphale smiled again, and it seemed to light up the entire room. 

Crowley meanwhile was rooted in place, all nervous energy, book set aside, hands in pockets, trying to give off the impression of being relaxed and failing miserably. 

"Has anyone ever kissed you, Crowley?" The angel advanced slowly, step by step as the demon fidgeted even more, obviously not expecting the question. 

Crowley finally mumbled a curt answer. "Sure. Loads of people. They couldn't resist me. I'm a charming bloke." 

Crowley could tell right away that Aziraphale saw through the brashness and charm, and the angel knew. Crowley had never known love. For millennia, there had always been only one being who understood him, only one he truly could imagine belonging to. In his heart, he knew from their first meeting he'd found the closest thing to what humans called a soulmate. Was the angel actually suggesting what he thought? Crowley's brain had gone dodgy and numb. 

"Crowley…it's all right." Aziraphale took Crowley's hand and squeezed it, watching as the facade of world weariness and nonchalance crumbled.

"No one's ever kissed me, angel. Fine. Are you satisfied?" he snapped. 

Aziraphale was the only being who could make Crowley flustered. 

There was only one being Crowley had ever had any interest in kissing, yet, he hadn't thought himself worthy. He couldn't bear to risk snuffing out Aziraphale 's light by dragging him down, making him suffer the agony of falling. Crowley used to think a being of such purity should not be tainted by a demon's touch. Over time, a faint hope had grown as he realized perhaps his angel wasn't as pristine and holy as the others. 

"Forgive me, " Aziraphale replied sheepishly, "I assumed that your lot...well...temptation and all….would encourage it."

Crowley shrugged. "Just the opposite really. Developing attachments--love makes demons less easy to control. It gives them too much hope." 

"Well..would you grant me the honor of being the first?" Aziraphale stood very close so Crowley could see the tiniest laugh lines around his blue eyes. Crowley had memorized every one, had come to love them over the years. 

"Are you sure that's a good idea, angel? What if your kind casts you out?" Crowley's yellow eyes seemed to burn with the torment of remembered hellfire. 

"Love is not something that makes you fall. It can be beautiful." Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed him slowly and sweetly, finding Crowley's stunned and shy response all the more endearing. 

The press of those plush lips filled Crowley's entire body with warmth. After a long moment, he could move again, and his hand curled around his angel's back, holding him close. Aziraphale's softness fit perfectly against his slender form as if they were made for each other. After six thousand years of waiting, he could finally love his angel. There was no damnation or pain, but a feeling of absolute joy and bliss, and relief that at least one of them knew what the hell they were doing.

When the kiss was broken, Crowley stood dazed and giddy, rendered mute by the kiss.

It was Aziraphale that spoke first, giving voice to a decision he had made in his heart long, long ago. "No matter what happens. I promise to be with you until the end. I can't imagine life without you."


End file.
